Once An Eve Novel

staircase, in front of another door.
    A woman was on stage, clad in a silver-sequined gown, a three-person band behind her. She sang into a microphone like the one the King had used at the parade. A sad, slow song drifted to the back of the room. A man on a saxophone leaned forward, adding a few low notes. Couples spun around on a cramped dance floor, a woman nuzzling her face into a man’s neck as he shifted his weight back and forth, his hips swaying with the beat. Others huddled in cozy booths, laughing over half-empty glasses. Lit cigarettes sat in plastic trays, the smoke spiraling up to the ceiling.
    The walls were covered with painted canvases. One showed the City’s buildings dotted with bloodred lights, making each skyscraper look sinister. A massive painting hung behind the bar. Rows of children were shown in crisp white shirts and blue shorts just like the ones the Golden Generation wore, but their faces were flat and featureless, each one interchangeable with the next. I scanned every person in the room, looking for Caleb at the bar, or in the pack of men huddled by the door. In the back, to the right of the stage, a figure sat alone in a booth. His face was hidden under the brim of his cap. He was twisting something between his fingers, lost in quiet concentration.
    The song ended. The woman in the sequined dress introduced some of the band members and made a joke. A few people behind me laughed. I stood rooted in place, watching him play with the paper napkin, how he bit down hard on his bottom lip. Suddenly, as if sensing me there, he looked up, his gaze meeting mine. He stared at me for a moment, his face brightening in a smile.
    Then he was up, closing the space between us. As the woman started singing again, he reached me, pressing his face into my neck. He wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders, pulling me so close my feet lifted off the ground. We stayed there as the music swelled around us. Our bodies fitted together perfectly, as though we were never meant to be apart.

eighteen
     
    “I WAS GETTING WORRIED,” HE SAID, WHEN HE FINALLY SET ME down. He gently pulled strands of hair away from my wet lips. “I thought I’d been stupid to give you that note, to tell you to come.” He held my face between his hands, tilting my chin up so he could see beneath my cap. “You should know better than to keep a boy waiting,” he laughed. “It was torture.”
    “I’m here now.” I held onto his wrists and pressed down, feeling the bones just beneath the surface of his skin. He smiled, his eyes wet. “I’m really here.”
    He buried his face into my neck, his lips against my skin. “I missed you so much.” His arms tightened around me. I stroked the back of his head. There was something about the way he held me—clinging to my sides, squeezing the breath from my body—that startled me.
    “I’m okay,” I said softly, trying to reassure him. His breathing slowed. “We’re here, together. We’re okay,” I repeated.
    He looked at me, running his finger over my cheekbones and down the bridge of my nose. Then he pressed his lips to mine, letting them rest there for a moment. I savored the familiar scent of his skin, his stubble against my cheek, his hands in my hair. I clutched his sides, wishing we could stay like this always, the moon forever in the sky, the earth paused on its axis.
    After a long while we slid into the booth where Caleb had been waiting. The woman in the sequined dress was still singing, the melody slow and sweet as she described a midnight train to Georgia. A few men studied us from the bar as they swigged tiny glasses of black liquid. The candlelight danced on our faces. Caleb kept hold of my hand. “Where are we?” I asked, adjusting my cap so it hid my eyes.
    “It’s a speakeasy,” Caleb said. “They serve their own alcohol. People come here to drink, smoke, go out after curfew—all the things the King has outlawed in the City.”
    I brought my hand to my face, afraid someone would recognize me from the parade. “Is it safe? Do they know who you are?”
    “Everyone here is guilty of something.” He lowered his voice, pointing to a man in the far corner playing cards. A gold watch was set on the table in front of him, along with some silver rings. “Gambling, alcohol consumption, smoking, exchanging goods ‘off record,’ they call it. Goods that aren’t bought with the government-issued credit cards are supposed to be traded through the newspaper.